


Buck, Interrupted

by Indigo2831



Category: 9-1-1 (TV)
Genre: 118 firefam, 5+1 Things, Anxiety, Buck Is A Rockhead, Buck and Eddie, Buck and Eddie's Co-Dependent Bromance, Crushed By A Firetruck Aftermath, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Trauma, canon complaint, tsunami aftermath
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-18 01:54:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21519973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Indigo2831/pseuds/Indigo2831
Summary: Buck's past year has been filled with so much trauma: nearly losing his sister, being crushed by a firetruck, and the tsunami. Here's how he recovered.  Post 2x18's "This Life We Choose."-OR-The five times Buck's family and friends let him not be okay, and the one time they didn't.
Relationships: Evan "Buck" Buckley & Athena Grant, Evan "Buck" Buckley & Everyone, Evan "Buck" Buckley & Firehouse 118 Crew, Evan "Buck" Buckley & Henrietta "Hen" Wilson, Evan "Buck" Buckley & Maddie Buckley
Comments: 51
Kudos: 298





	1. Medal of Honor

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this one for a while. I'm discovering that I love writing Firefam fic, so that's what I'm doing right now.   
> These will be six stand-alone stories, but they were all written cohesively. I hope you enjoy. I have one chapter left to write so updates will be regular. Let me know what you think. And yes, I know the title sucks.

Most people have the belief that being a first responder and the constant exposure to death and tragedy calloused the soul. For Evan Buckley, it’s the exact opposite. Anyone can turn on the evening news to find the horrors of the world, but he gets to kick the fates in the ass a little and help miracles happen. Being a firefighter makes Buck softer, brighter, and more in tune with his humanity. 

It’s only when it was taken away that he becomes stoic and thinly-auraed. 

After the tsunami, Buck is a ghost tethered the remnants of his own life with an eerie detachment. He feels nothing, not grief nor pride. Buck goes through the motions like he’s been programmed, and wonders if maybe it’s easier this way. He irons his dress blues and hangs them up carefully on the stair railing. He shaves methodically, slathering on extra aftershave just to see if the sting registers. 

It does not. 

He dresses slowly. It’s only when he grabs his tie does he realize that his hands are shaking with such intensity, he can’t even attempt to tie it. He leaves it undone and sits at his kitchen island drinking too strong black coffee without registering the heat or bitterness.

Maddie arrives, clad in an ivory dress with olive green beaded flowers and too much cheer. “I’m so proud of you,” she says, beaming. 

She poses him like a marionette, sweeping back the arm holding his coffee, and laughs at the stripe of black Hermes draped around his neck. She reaches for it, and the ritual triggers memories of a well-appointed home with empty rooms; only Maddie’s determination and spirit filling them with life and warmth. She’s always known how to do things most women don’t, like play goalie so Buck could try out for a competitive soccer league and how to construct the perfect Windsor knot, so Buck looked professional on game days. 

The memory stirs up something--love and nostalgia and an immense desire to crawl back into bed and sleep for a year. Before he is even aware of the urge, Buck has reeled her into a desperate hug. Except he hadn’t announced the movement, and Maddie stiffens at its suddenness. At least he has no problem being plagued with regret and guilt. “I’m sorry,” he says against her shoulder. 

Maddie drapes her arms around him. “It’s okay. Today is going to be great, Evan. You’ll see.” 

He closes his eyes against a flash of a cresting mountainous wave and a child’s screams. 

“I don’t want it,” Buck admits. 

Maddie kisses the top of his head. “You deserve it, little brother. Come on, let’s get you dressed.” 

She helps him into his jacket, buttons it and smoothes out the shoulders. Finally, a hand moves to his cheek, cupping it gently. “I have never been more proud of you. One day, you will realize that you are an amazing man. I hope it is today, but if it’s not, that’s okay, too. You can do this, Evan.” Maddie nods confidently. 

“I can do this.” He echoes. 

And he does. He smiles through the ceremony, clapping at the appropriate times and takes the stage when his name is called. He stares at Maddie while the governor threads the medal of honor, California’s highest honor, around his neck. 

_ “Will everyone who was saved by Firefighter Buckley please stand.”  _

There is a muffled glide of chairs on the carpet, and slowly the faceless masses of the crowd begin to stand. Five. Ten.  _ Twenty. _

Christopher cheers from his perch on Eddie’s shoulder. Tia Peppa sobs. 

Beneath the lights of the stage, and the adoration of fellow first responders and heroes of the Santa Monica Tsunami that claimed 216 lives, Buck makes a valiant effort to remove the emotional armor he’d unknowingly erected after, and lets emotion in. To feel pride or joy. Or even a scintilla of gratitude that he survived. 

But he only opens himself up to the spirits of the lives he couldn’t save. They waft over the heads of the standing audience members, nebulous and forever entombed in dark, surging water. 

Buck white-knuckles it through the photo ops and media interviews. A reporter, who was not Taylor Kelly, catches a fabulous shot of Christopher all but running to Buck, dropping his crutches to scramble up to hug him. He’ll probably win an award for the photo, and everyone will continue to prettify the ugliness of a natural disaster that destroyed so much.

He sneaks out between speeches, craving the solitude of his loft. It never really gets cold in Los Angeles, and Buck misses it. The constant heat is suffocating. He leans against the side of the building, near the loading dock, itching for a vice he doesn’t have to take the edge off. 

“Buckley from the 118, right?” A husky voice calls. 

Buck looks up to see a black woman approaching. She dons the same uniform, a medal of her own, and the same shellshocked grimace he’s been trying to conceal for months. “Yep.” 

“Everly from the 253.” In the dappled streetlights, her face is all soft angles and hooded eyes. Her dark hair is slicked back in a comely bun that seems far too tight. She pulls a silver canister out of her purse. “The only reason I carry one,” she says sarcastically. She takes a nip and hisses at the burn. 

“If you ever see me with a purse, you’ll know why,” Buck deadpans. 

“Tonight was....” Everly trails off with another pull. 

“Preach. I don’t think anyone really gets it.” 

“And this…” she flicks the medal on her chest, “makes it all worse.” 

“Amen.”

“You got a bigger one than me, so you look like you need this more than I so,” Everly hands him the flask. 

“I was crushed by a firetruck BEFORE the tsunami so…” Buck remarks, which makes Everly choke with laughter, “I’m extra special.”

“That’s why you look so familiar! How’s the leg?” 

“A mess, but it works.” Buck holds the flask with hesitation. He’s never been much of a drinker, thanks to his dad’s obsession with rare scotches and not him. But the last year of his life has been anything but ordinary, so why not try something new. Buck takes a hearty gulp and is pleasantly surprised by the slightly peppery taste of tequila. "I should be back to work soon."

“You really know how to outdo a girl,” Everly confesses. 

But her ordeal was just as treacherous: Everly and her partner were en route to the hospital with an intubated patient when the tsunami made landfall. The ambulance crashed, and they were stranded in the surging water. Her partner, who was driving, was gravely injured. Everly cared for her partner and manually bagged for the patient for four grueling hours before another unit could reach them. 

The tequila is good, and the heat of it spread through him like embers in the night. He hasn’t eaten all day, and it’s not long before he’s loose-limbed and immensely lighter. 

“Buck, there you are,” Maddie calls from the street. “We’re ready to go to dinner. Christopher is getting grumpy.” 

“Hang on one sec,” Buck smiles at his sister. He turns back to Everly. “One for the road,” he takes an exaggerated pull from the flask before handing it back. He extends his hand to Everly. “Thanks for the chat…and the drink.” 

“No problem. If you ever want to commiserate, I’m practically live at the 253, swing by.” 

“Be careful what you wish for,” he winks and jogs to join Maddie. 

She threads an arm through his and tried to meet his eyes. “Are you okay, Buck?” 

The alcohol, Buck realizes, made the effort of the charade far easier. He smiles down at his sister, his eyes twinkling, the trademark Buckley charm rising from somewhere within. “Never better. Let’s see if my new accessory can score us free dinners.” 


	2. The Dragon Slayer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Healed doesn't mean 100%. Buck's leg is bothering him; Eddie helps.

Evan Buckley is many things but modest isn’t one of them. He walks out of the shower, towel barely cinched around his waist, lotions, and dresses as he always has. He’s not surprised when he hears the combination of whistle-gasp at the puckered pink scars on his left shoulder (burns from the firetruck explosion) or the wide linear scars from surgeries to fix his leg. 

This time it’s Rath, peeking at his leg as he whisks his dreadlocks into a top knot and preps for duty. Buck elbows into his uniform shirt and lifts his leg onto the bench. “Take a look, man.” 

The scars extend from below the coarser skin of his knee to just above his ankle, bracketing his shin. Hair doesn’t grow on the scarred skin, so Buck sometimes opts to shave both legs. Even more impressive, there’s a slight divot in his calf where the truck had rested and the muscle hadn’t regenerated (He toyed with the idea of getting the truck’s number tattooed in it, but had yet to follow through). His leg is a mess, but Buck isn’t ashamed of it. He’s proud. It’s a reminder of what he’s survived. 

“That is gnarly, dawg,” Rath gasps as he admires the scars. “Does it still hurt?” 

After enduring two surgeries and physical therapy that introduced Buck to new, stratospheric tolerances for pain, he isn’t sure how to answer. “Not even sure I could tell if it did.” 

Buck realizes just hours later that he had jinxed himself in the locker room. Part of his physical therapy and conditioning to return to the job had been to deactivate his innate dominance on his left leg and shifting it to his right, which is essentially undoing years of hard-wired training. 

So when house-fire that’s thought to be contained suddenly flashes over with a kid still inside, Buck’s muscle memory takes over, and he breaches the door with a practiced backward kick with his left leg. Except, the muscles in it are different, a bit mangled and supported by a titanium rod and pieces of a dead guy’s tibia. The kick jams the rod into the tip of his femur, and slingshots pain throughout his entire nervous system. Buck has never had more appreciation for his mask because it hides the tears that involuntarily spill onto his cheeks. 

Refusing to back down, Buck pretends the molten and beautiful conflagration is his pain and battles it with water and seven months of unspent rage. 

Unfortunately, even after the fire is out, the pain follows Buck back to the station, hotter and more destructive. He can’t take pain medication on duty, and frankly, avoids it as much as he can off-duty, but he compromises with stealthily downs four Aleve in the locker room, walks as normally as he can up to the breakroom and parks himself on the couch, sinking deep into the cushions to indicate he has no intention of moving. 

Buck had tiptoed across a razor-thin margin to make it back to active duty, and he fears that, injured in the line of duty or not, he has weakened his standing with the LAFD, and he refuses to show any weakness or give them any leeway to outright fire him. So he smiles with Hen and jokes with Chimney and forces down lunch even through his leg hurts so badly he nearly wretches twice. Eddie flounces on the couch next to him, jarring his leg so badly Buck bites his tongue to keep from screaming. 

“You know you’re Chim’s gopher today,” Eddie grins. “When he’s done stocking the ambulance, he’s going to get his revenge.” 

Buck licks the sweat from his upper lip, sorting past the torturous throb of his leg to try to remember what the hell Eddie is talking about. 

And then he remembers.

While washing the trucks that morning, Chimney and Buck were playing high stakes fire trivia. The winner of the game got to force the loser to do whatever they wanted for the day, including the least desired chores, pointless errands and whatever their wicked minds could think of. The last time Buck had won he had forced Chimney walk to walk to the burger joint two miles away to retrieve dinner. 

“Where was the second deadliest blaze in US history? I’ll give you a hint, it happened the same day as the Great Chicago Fire, and killed four times as many people,” Chimney had asked, sloshing the sponge into the bucket of suds. 

“Cheery.” Buck had rapped a fist against the crimson of the engine, rinsing behind Chimney. “The Peshtigo Fire,” he’d answered quickly, stalling to remember the state. “In…uh, Michigan.” 

Chimney had made a buzzer noise. “Wrong. It was Wisconsin.” 

Buck wrinkled his nose, affronted. “What’s the difference?” 

“BUCKAROO!” Chimney catcalls, grinning. “It’s redemption time.” 

He drops his head in his hands and tugs at the shorn hair at the nape of his neck. Buck has been a bit of spectacle since the firetruck, and it’s isolating that the city of Los Angeles not only knows about the greatest tragedy of this life but can watch it readily on YouTube. Part of his insistence on coming back to work is the regain what he had lost--his family and the job he loves--but also his dignity. He doesn’t want to be seen as damaged goods or a sound-byte. He wants to just be Buck again. The monstrous pain is yet another thing that prevents that from happening, but unlike the scars, it’s something Buck can at least try to conceal.

He suffers through the next hour of Chimney’s pointless and cruel errands. Unaware that Buck is one errant thump of pain from cutting off his leg, Chimney forces Buck to feed him gummy bears one at a time. The dish is stowed in the ladder truck, so Buck has to ascend and descend the stairs for each one. Eddie intercepts Buck on the seventh descent when he almost tumbles down the stairs, hooking an arm through his and leading him to the locker room. Buck staggers to the bench with a strangled gasp. He grips his knee and huffs out a complicated string of profanity. 

“Hey, hey,” Eddie says. “Are you okay?” 

Buck is still only capable of obscenities. 

Eddie seems to narrate his thoughts. “Leg hurts, huh?” Eddie squats in front of him and pats Buck’s cheek. “Buck, hey, you’re focusing on the pain too much. Look at me, man, come on. You’re going to make yourself sick.” 

During his recovery, the pain took on a life of its own. Buck imagined a slicked-scaled dragon chomping on the epiphysis of his bones, spreading flame up and down the bones. Sometimes, it was a tiny controllable dragon. And sometimes, it was a terrifying beast Buck couldn’t tame. 

Buck looks at Eddie’s face, pinched with empathy, and realizes that he has Eddie’s collar bunched in its hand, and has twisted it to the point of near strangulation. “It’s a ‘Game of Thrones’ dragon,” he grits out and forces himself to loosen his grip.

Eddie’s eyebrows climb. “You’re not making sense.” 

“ _ Hurts _ ,” Buck says instead.    
  
“Yeah, I got that. Why didn’t you say anything?” When Buck can’t answer, his friend supplies it. “Yeah, you’re  _ bucking _ stupid,” he deadpanned. “Now, let me help. Lay back.” 

Eddie places a hand on Buck’s neck and gently tips him back to lay on the bench. “Just breathe, Buck. Deep breaths, okay. You know the drill.” Eddie had attended at least a half-dozen of Buck’s PT sessions, happy to learn what he could to ensure Buck didn’t overdo it between sessions but also to be able to help him manage the pain and help with the recovery. He rolls up the leg of his pants to inspect it. “It’s a little swollen, but it’s not too bad. Just kick me if I make anything worse, okay?” 

“Get me a new one. I’ll pay anything,” he blurts out. 

Eddie’s touch is soft at first, fingers kneading into the spasming muscle. When Buck doesn’t scream or throw up, he applies more pressure by using his palm. Buck’s entire body had been strung tight, like a harp string, but the movement disrupts the pain and gives his body a break from the stress, and he melts onto the bench, finally able to receive other information about his body. His head is pounding and he’s incredibly thirsty and sweatier than normal.

The dragon shrinks just a little. 

For a while, there’s nothing more than Buck’s ragged breathing as Eddie massages Buck’s leg. He is loopy and pain-drunk. “Marry me, please? I’ll have the babies and everything,” Buck promises as the relief of spasming muscle turns to a pleasurable sensation. 

“I want twins,” Eddie says. 

“If you keep doing this, I'll have your litter.” 

Eddie blows a raspberry. “Clearly you’ve never delivered a baby.” He hovers over him, and the image strikes him as deja vu. And he’s slapped with a memory of a longer-haired Eddie, pale and promising that he was going to be okay, the stars of the night sky blighted by smoke.

“Where’s your TENS unit?” 

“I don’t want to use it here.” 

Buck groans when Eddie stops massaging his leg and starts digging through his locker to find the plastic case. “No one is going to drag you out of here because of your leg, Buck. They’d have to do the same for all of us,” Eddie says. “Cap’s shoulder is shot. Chimney gets those headaches. Hen calls out, like, once a month. I still have shrapnel in my back. You’re human, Buck. It’s okay.” He finds it, and tucks it under his arm. “Come on. Let’s get you comfortable.” 

Eddie could have led him into the gates of hell, and Buck would’ve blindly followed because he was promising comfort and relief. Even still, he flushes with embarrassment as Eddie assists him out of the locker room, and up to approaches the base of the stairs. Chimney is perched at the railing. “Where’s my blue gummy bear, Buck?” 

Buck can bear more than a glance at Chimney, but it’s enough time to see his eyes flare at the sight of Buck limping. Within seconds, he is flying down the stairs to support Buck’s other side. “Jesus, are you okay?” 

“Yeah, I’m fine.” 

Chimney connects the dots, “the door breach.”

Buck shrugs. “Didn’t think ‘bout it.” 

“Because there was a kid inside,” Chimney says fondly as they reach the top of the stairs. 

Chimney eases him down on the couch as Eddie goes the freezer. His medic training takes over as he produces two flat ice packs in ziplock bags, places them over the worst of the swelling and secures it with ace bandages. The shock of the cold is excruciating at first, and Buck throws his head back as the pain crests. It plummets just as fast, and eventually, the cold deadens his leg. 

“Better?” Chimney hopes, clearly worried. 

Buck nods. 

“Now why the hell would you let me gopher you if your leg was bothering you?” 

“I’m a team player,” he says innocently. 

“You’re an idiot,” Chimney surmises. “You can finish tomorrow,” he grins with a gentle pat of Buck’s shoulder. “I’m going to get you some water.”

When the ice melts, Eddie swaps the ice packs for the leads of the TENS unit, which Buck will now dub the Dragon Slayer, because it mutes the agony almost entirely. 

Eddie settles beside him, and sweeps Buck’s leg in his lap, forcing him to turn so he’s lying down. It’s a trick he’s seen him do with Christopher when he battles against bedtime. He continues to massage Buck’s leg and flicking his toes when Buck purposely fights sleep, even though the chronic pain wipes him out. “We’ll do drills this weekend, Buck. Make sure you breach with the right, okay?” 

“Mhmm,” Buck says. 

Hen flops on the sectional beside him and steals the remote. The crew starts fighting over television rights and seniority, ignoring Buck’s mangled limb, twitching from the bursts of electric current jolting the limb. 

Smiling, Buck sleeps. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did some research on bone grafts and rod placement to try to make this as accurate as possible. All my firefighting knowledge, however, comes from TV.


	3. Work-In-Progress

For the first time in fifteen weeks, Buck lays his eyes on his left leg or at least, the shriveled, odorous, scarred appendage that is currently hanging from his body. Buck blinks at the wide, red scars that bracket his shin, extending the length of his calf. He pokes it experimentally and then gazes up at his orthopedic surgeon trying to gauge her expression. Trying to figure out if he should be happy or horrified. 

Dr. Khatri tosses her long, intricate braid over her shoulder before snapping on a pair of gloves and examines the desiccated limb. The pain is spectacular, and yet a shadow of what it had been just weeks earlier. She seems pleased with what she finds, and Buck allows himself to breathe. “No more cast?” He wonders with desperate hope.

“No more cast. FREEDOM!” She bellows ala Braveheart. Dr. Khatri is an utter genius when it comes to rebuilding limbs, and also a massive geek. Buck can’t help to have a little bit of a crush.

Buck fist-bumps her and leans back in the examination table with relief. For once, he doesn’t ask about returning to work. He’s not only prepared for the answer, he learned after the second surgery that this recovery is going to be a gruelingly lengthy one that will need to be marked by milestones, not the endgame. Instead, he meditates through the application of his new soft cast--a padded black boot that extends to just below his knee--and admires his new crutches. They are ergonomic ones with hand-grips similar to Christopher’s and he’s tickled at that they’ll be matching for the next month or two. 

Dr. Khatri sets him up with a prescription for pain meds, some small exercises to do, and a suggestion: “Since you’re more mobile, find a project that you can focus on. Not base-jumping or ATVing, but something that’ll get you out of the house, help you build your strength. Take it slow, though, okay? Only bare weight for an hour at a time, and listen to the pain.”

“You got it, doc.” 

“I’ll see you in two weeks, Buck. Don’t make it sooner, all right? If this is a marathon, we’re on mile sixteen. More than halfway there, but you still have a ways to go.” 

Buck slides off the examination table, crutches in hand, and gingerly hobbles around the treatment room. The leg is stiff and weak, already trembling, even when he offsets the weight on his crutches and his healthy leg. “Can I run a marathon?” He wonders idly. 

“Evan,” she says with familiar exasperation, “please don’t ruin my work.” 

“I’m teasing you, Dr. K. I actually have a project in mind: my sister’s fortieth birthday is coming up. She had a pretty crappy year, and I’m going to plan her the perfect party--flowers, dinner, music, the works.” 

“That sounds like a great idea. Just remember, Evan--Buck,” she corrects at his grimace, “you’ve been through something quite traumatic. You’re still healing, mentally and physically. Don’t overdo it, okay?”

Buck flashes his teeth in a devious smile. “Me? Never.” 

But Buck is energized by the idea of being useful again. Of having a purpose and the newfound mobility to accomplish it. Instead of spending his days worrying about potentially losing the ability to do the only thing he’s ever been good at or recouping sleep from a painful night riddled with macabre dreams, he focuses on Maddie’s birthday party. She deserves as many beautiful moments as he can give her, especially after all that she’s survived. He pours himself into the task from the minute he leaves the doctors’ office, firing up Pinterest in the car. By that night he’s selected three shockingly different color schemes and has a list of a dozen potential locations. 

Even if he struggles to get it right, tinkering with the hues of peach and maroon or black and gold or the ombre purples, or the table decor, it’s worth the hours and days and weeks spent. 

Buck dances on his crutches as Hen and Denny ascend the matted green of the park’s hill. He sticks his tongue out, snarling a little as Denny runs to give him a hug and inspect his new brace. “Denny, be please don’t touch that.” 

“Mom, Christopher told me he has titanium in there!” Denny says, awed. 

Buck leans down to whisper, “Vibranium, actually. You can’t tell anyone.” Denny squeals with delight. Buck pulls up photos of X-rays on his phone. “Take a look, man.” 

Denny studies the photo with fascination. Hen seems unimpressed. “If my kid throws himself off a roof trying to get a Vibranium rod in his body, I will smash the other leg.” 

“With your stellar parenting, that would never happen,” Buck replies. “Thanks for coming down.”

“And miss your cast-less debut? Never. I also need to lay eyes on whatever you cooked up for Maddie’s birthday.”

“Denny, lead the way, man!” Buck calls, pocketing his phone. He hobbles after them, putting a fraction of weight on his leg. Every step is pronounced and painful progress. 

Hen splits her attention between him and Denny, tracking his course through the crowd and snapping at him when he gets too far away.

“I have everything planned. It’s all about the tablescape, “ Buck says seriously. He produces a notebook stuffed with print-outs, fabric and ribbon swatches, and notes scrawled in Buck’s impatient script. “Check it out.” 

“You did all this? In two weeks?” 

Buck shrugs. “Maddie deserves it.”

Hen seems impressed and even awed. “I worry about what shenanigans you’re getting into unsupervised. But this is...thorough.” 

“I just heard ‘I worry.’ You love me, Hen!” He beams.

The flower mart is nothing more than an explosion of color and fragrance. Buck, Hen, and Denny consult Buck’s detailed notes and orders the flowers to be delivered to his apartment the day before the party. Buck’s surprised well his leg is holding up to all of the activity. He’s long gotten used to the various gradations of agony, but it’s more than bearable. Maybe it’s the fresh air, sunlight and having something to do that distracts him from the pain. 

They pick up other few supplies, Hen volunteering to make trips to Buck’s jeep, and then they stop at the food stalls to get lunch. Buck and Denny are battling to see who can produce the longest melty strings from their brisket grilled cheese. A thunderous mechanical pop slams through the companionable laughter. Hard-wired instinct propels Buck forward, diving ontop Denny and dragging Hen down with them. He uses the bulk of his back to shield them from the flashover and fire of what every cell in his body is telling is an explosion. He cinches his eyes shut and waits for the dizzying rolls and the subsequent tumble against the ceiling and steering wheel before hitting air. 

What follows, however, isn’t the roiling singe of heat or the deafening scream of buckling metal, it’s Denny crying and startled gasps rippling through the patrons of the busy market. 

Buck lifts his head to the sunlight to find a confused face of the food truck owner behind his whirring generator wielding a monkey wrench. “Didn’t mean to startle you there.” 

Buck turns back to where Denny is crying at his mother’s side, gripping a nastily scraped and bleeding elbow. The impact of guilt is far more rattling than the phantom explosion. Buck ignores the sharp ache in his leg that throbs in his teeth and crawls where Denny is hiding on his mother’s lap, all tears and panic. He looks impossibly small as he melds against her side, shrinking away from Buck. Or the crazy 200-pound man who tackled him and dragged him under a picnic table for no reason. 

Denny’s eyes are heartbreakingly dark and shimmer with tears. “You knocked me down,” he hiccups. 

Buck wants to wretch at the idea of hurting Denny. He reaches for his arm but he slinks back further into Hen’s grasp. “I’m so sorry, Denny. I didn’t mean to.” 

Hen scoops him up and stands, setting him on the table. “Let’s take a look at that,” she says calmly and straightens her glasses to inspect the wound. It’s a decent injury the size of a quarter and scraped to the pale layers of skin below. “Oh, it’s a good one,” she murmurs. “Look, Denny, did you know this is called the epidermis?” She asks with amazement as she digs through her purse to produce a first aid kit. 

Denny sniffles and gazes at his scraped elbow with burgeoning curiosity. “It is?” He asks hesitantly, wiping his face.

In less than ten minutes, Denny’s tears are dried, his scrape is bandaged, and he’s eating the world’s largest ice cream sundae courtesy of the sympathetic food truck owner. He takes a big bite and wiggles from the cold, halo of golden curls bouncing gleefully. Hen, the mother and paramedic, turns her attention to Buck, who’s still on the ground, fisting his hands to hide his own abraded palms. “Can you get up on your own?” 

Buck would rather slither under the table with the garbage and slime. Hen doesn’t wait for him to answer. She stoops down and leans forward, looping her arms around him tightly. “Put both arms around my neck. We’re going on three, okay?” 

Buck obliges, inhaling as Hen counts off and scoops him up. He balances on his good leg until Hen hands him his crutches. 

“You wanna tell me what that was?” She says, extending her mom tone to him. She rubs her left wrist lightly. 

“It sounded like...um…” Buck struggles for breath.

Hen takes a comforting hold of his arm. “Are you okay, Buck?” 

“Yeah, I just thought...it sounded like the bomb, the truck,” he admits, heat rising to his face. “I didn’t mean to hurt Denny. I’m so sorry.” 

Hen waves. “He’s going to be bragging about that scrape all week. If you ever have a kid, buy band-aids in bulk,” Hen laughs, rubbing her wrist again. 

“I hurt you, too, didn’t I?” 

“When you were shielding my son and I from what you thought was an explosion with your actual body? I’ll take the bruise. For what it’s worth, thank you.” 

“I’m sorry...I just…” 

“Had a life-altering trauma? This is the first time you’ve been out in weeks. You’re doing great.” Hen promises. “Ya know, you’re still a firefighter, Buck. There are resources available to you to help you manage this stuff.” 

“Oh, you mean the department psychologist I slept with last year? I’ll pass,” Buck grouses. 

Hen lights up at the bit of gossip, wrist entirely forgotten. “Okay, I’m going to get that guy to give us more ice cream, and you’re going to tell me every sordid detail of that story,” she says. “Do you mind if I play the PTSD card? Is that too grimy?” 

Buck chuckles. “Not if salted caramel is involved.” 

“Got it. Watch Denny for me!” She tosses over her shoulder as she darts off. Trusting him immediately.

Buck stammers to call after her, not wanting to further upset the child. 

He glances at Denny and slides down the bench seat to keep him within arms reach. He expects the child to flinch away from the crazy gimp who tackled him. Unsure of what to say, he just stares at the superhero logo on Denny’s shirt. “Is that good?” He asks, nervously.

His golden haloed head bobs with enthusiasm, mouth smeared with chocolate. Buck’s heart practically glows when Denny presents him with an ice cream caked strawberry. “It’s the best part,” Denny says. 

The gesture brings tears to his eyes. He’s not sure what Hen said to him, but Denny isn’t scared of him at all. Buck bites it from his hand, growling like a beast. Denny nearly tips over with laughter, the earlier madness forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of my favorite additions. Let me know what you think.


	4. I Got The Purples

From the lofted bedroom of Buck’s apartment, it looks like Thanos exploded all over the downstairs. For Buck, however, it is organized aborigine chaos, something to throw himself into with the gusto he normally reserves for saving lives. And he discovers, as he divides twenty-two French lavender candies into small plastic boxes, wraps them in ribbon and seals it off with a dab of hot glue, and a sprig of faux lavender flowers, that he likes building creating things. He files that away in the back of his mind, where the doubt that he’ll ever don the LAFD uniform again resides. 

Buck spends two straight days making purple party favors, gift bags, picking up the ombre purple balloon bouquets. He wishes he would’ve brought Hen to the party store for her opinion because he has trouble making decisions and nothing ever seems like it’s enough for a fortieth birthday, let alone the first birthday after Maddie killed Doug. His sister deserves the universe, and while Buck can’t deliver that, he can throw her the most elegant birthday party she’s ever had. 

He arrives at the venue by noon with a trunk full of purple and white floral arrangements he made himself. The past week had proven to be a lot of activity on his leg, so he begs the owner for a wheeled chair from the office, braces his leg on that, and scoots around the rented out restaurant when he can, decorating and preparing for the event. 

By the time he’s arranged and rearranged everything, Buck is dripping sweat and his leg is  _ officially done _ . Dr. K’s warning not to overdo it haunts him, and he forces himself to take a break and some pain meds. He slides into the men's’ room and expertly bathes himself in the sink. The silver lining of shattering both the bones in his leg is that he has plenty of practice cleaning himself without the use of a proper shower. He dresses in his favorite black suit with a purple tie and pocket square. He sits on his chair in the men's room, and stuffs the leads of his TENS unit down into his brace and cranks it on. This little miraculous little device that sends electrical pulses through his nervous system, essentially distracting them from transmitting and accepting pain, is his most prized possession. He lets the machine and meds work, and adds in a brief bout of meditation to prepare for the party. 

Ever since the accident, socializing, especially with the 118, who are all (thankfully) whole and unexploded, can be draining, challenging and a minefield of emotions. Their lives are moving on, and while he's just trying to make up the ground he's lost. His phone vibrates after twelve minutes of meditation. He disconnects the TENS unit, buttons his suit jacket, and paints on a convincing smile. Time to greet his guests. 

The venue is a small restaurant with shadowed alcoves and Italian tiled walls. The dining table is tucked under an ornate archway facing the stage. Buck has arranged cocktail tables with silver sequined tablecloths and centerpieces along the perimeter of the dance floor. The family dining table is covered with the same, littered with flowers, petals, candles and flanked by balloon bouquets. The ceiling of the entryway is piled with balloons, too, with photos of Maddie throughout her life dangling from the ends of the long ribbons. 

His smile is jagged by the time he sees Athena, Hen, and Bobby. They’re chatting in low tones as their eyes bounce around the space. Once he hops over to greet them, they fall silent, and their renewed grins seem as artificial as his own. “Hi, guys! Thanks for coming!” 

Athena greets Buck with a hug and a kiss, swiping her dark lipstick off his cheek. Bobby shakes his hand and admires Buck’s new brace. “Lookin’ good, kid!” 

Buck adjusts his tie. “I’m tryin’, I’m tryin’. Come on in, have a drink! There are signature cocktails!” 

“Are they purple?” Bobby quips with a chuckle. 

He frowns. “Of course! It’s Maddie’s favorite color.” 

Athena shoots Bobby a threatening look, and his smile fades. He clears his throat. “I can tell. It looks, um, great. Fabulous.”

Buck cocks his head at Bobby as Athena lightly pushes him towards the bar. “I can tell how much work you put into this Buck,” Athena says.

“Uh...thanks.” 

Something ominous squirms and slithers in his belly, and he turns around to surveil the party he’s spent weeks planning and four sleepless days putting together. He hops backward, blocking Hen as she tries to slip away. “Hen! Help me out here. What did Bobby mean?” He asks.

Hen opens and closes her mouth with an audible click of teeth before she places her hand on Buck’s arm and rubs. “I can tell it was done with love, Buck. I can’t believe you did  _ all of this _ on your own.” It sounds like an answer she’d given to Denny. 

“But…” he prompts. “Come on, Hen, you’re always honest with me.” 

She shakes her head, spiked earrings twinkling in the light. Hen fidgets, adjusting her glasses, and straightening her leather jacket. “I saw the ideas you had at the flower mart, and they were great. I just didn’t realize you were going to do... _ all of them _ . It’s just...a lot.” 

Buck gazes around the restaurant again. This time seeing it through Hen’s eyes and his jaw drops with only his stomach plummeting further. If high school kids had held their prom in a brothel, the decor would have been less garish. 

“Oh my god,” Buck gasps, nauseous, “ _ Oh...no _ .” Everywhere his eye travels it discovers a newer, more horrendous level of tacky. “Can we fix it?” 

Athena, rejoins them, violet cocktail in hand. “What’d I’d miss?” 

“This looks like a birthday party for an eccentric wizard!” Buck hisses which only makes Athena choke on her drink and Hen try and fail to contain her laughter. 

As the ladies contain themselves, Buck only wishes for his chair and the cool isolation of the venue’s men's room that smells of mildew and cheap air freshener. Athena dabs her mouth with a purple and white damask patterned napkin and then takes his hand. “You did a beautiful job, and Maddie is going to love and appreciate it. Hell, maybe Bobby and I can use your services for our wedding reception. I’m proud of you, and Maddie will be, too. Come on,” she places a hand on the small of his back, “show me all you’ve done. Did I see gift bags, too?” 

Buck knows that he’s being handled; he’s heard Athena’s calming tone that she only uses for jumpers and psychos, but he allows it because guests are already there, and Maddie will arrive in less than five minutes. He at least has the chance to show the birthday tiara and sash one of the supply bags beneath bags the table.

Athena’s uncharacteristic positivity doesn’t stop the pieces of conversations he picks up or the overenthusiastic thumbs-up he gets from Eddie as he checks on the hors d'oeuvres and the chocolate fountain. 

Maddie arrives to a chorus of cheers, and a barrage of purple and silver confetti. His heart races and sweat pools under his arms as he studies her face trying to gauge her reaction. Maddie’s emotions are even bigger and less containable than Buck’s, and he sees her pan the room and offers a slack-jawed “wow” to Chimney with a roll of her eyes. 

Buck’s heart breaks more completely as his failure rings true. He waits until everyone is seated at dinner (why did he buy metallic purple chargers to go on top of the silver sequin tablecloth?!) and excuses himself to go to the restroom. 

He nudges the door shut with a nudge of a crutch, and barely has time to flush the toilet before a sob rolls out of him, throaty and deep. Buck rams a first into the metal stall so hard the entire thing rattles. He flushes the toilet again, and tears open his shirt collar, loosening his tie as the water circles down the drain. But at least that has its purpose. Unlike him. Buck has been rudderless since the bomb went off since ten tons of metal landed on his leg. Of course, Buck didn’t think party-planning would be his next career, but he’d hoped he’d be able to do something, anything else, well. 

He feels as useless as the limb that’s careening pain up and thigh and down to his toes. He strips off his jacket, taking care to hang it over the hook and sits on the toilet, crying and unable to stop himself. He allows himself three minutes to be as miserable as he wants, and even sets the timer on his phone. Except when it goes off, he can’t stop himself. He resets it. 

He’s in the middle of the third cycle when the door opens. Heels click against the tile too daintily to be male. “Evan? You’ve been in here for a while. Are you okay?” Maddie asks. 

Buck’s lip is trembling and his hands are numb, and he cups a hand over his mouth to smother any sound as he cries soundlessly behind the stall door. 

When he doesn’t answer, Maddie shakes it. Her fingers curl over the top, painted a pristine shade of royal purple. It was the only hint he’d given her about the party. "Buck, open the door." 

His hopelessness relents just a little, and Buck reaches forward to unlock the door. Maddie trips inside, startled by the freed movement of the door. She takes in the sight of him breaking down on the toilet and crouches in front of him. Her black dress puffing up as she stoops. “Why are you so upset, babe?” 

Maddie shouldn’t be spending her birthday comforting him next to rust-strained urinals, and the thought just makes him leak even more. “I can’t d-do anything,” he hiccups worthlessly.

“What makes you say that?” 

“I wanted to make it special and fix everything, and it’s...so bad. And I thought it was nice. When I realized it wasn’t...I didn’t have time to fix it. I’m sorry, Maddie. I’m so sorry.” 

Maddie unspools a foot of toilet paper and shoves it in his hand. “I love my party, Buck. No one has ever done anything this wonderful for me before,” she confesses. Buck knows when she's lying, and he finds nothing but sincerity. 

Buck eyes her with puffy-eyed suspicion. “So you don’t think it looks like Ursula’s lair?” 

Laughter explodes out of her like a shrill song. “Let me guess: Josh?” He nods. “Well, she might be a little jealous, but coming from Josh that’s a high honor.” Maddie rubs his shoulder. “Are you sure this isn’t about other stuff? Doug stuff? Leg stuff?” She wonders but doesn’t give Buck a chance to answer. She already knows. “There’s nothing about me that you need to fix. I’m not broken, and neither are you.” She pats his hand and stands up. “Clean yourself up. I wanna dance with my little brother at my incredibly purple party.” 

She closes the stall door, and Buck forces composure for Maddie’s sake. He cleans himself up the best he can and puts his jacket back on. When he exits the stall, his eyes are bloodshot and his cheeks puffed and rimmed in red. “I am a mess,” he sighs. 

“With the glare shooting off the tablecloths like a disco ball, no one’s going to notice,” she teases. 

Buck blots his eyes with a cold paper towel. “You’re lucky it’s your birthday.” 

She adjusts his tie, and regards him with such adoration Buck can scarcely breathe. “I’m lucky all right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I noticed that Buck tends to become obsessed with things, and it's definitely something we have in common. I decided to exploit that characteristic for my own angsty desires. This might be one of my all-time favorite chapters. I hope you find the humor in it, too. Thanks for all the wonderful feedback!


	5. Backdraft

“He’s doing it again,” Chimney gripes over the radio. 

“It’s creepy. You have to stop,” Eddie chides from the passenger seat. 

“Buck, we’re on our way to a tragedy,” Hen says. 

Her voice crackles through the headset over the roar of the truck, slightly delayed from the movements of her mouth, like the dubbing of an old Kung Fu movie. The teasing only widens Buck’s smile to lip-splitting levels, and he tips his head back, savoring the bumpy shuffle-rock of the engine, the aimless chatter over the radio, and the unsteady, silver charge of adrenaline soaking into his veins. This is what he’d been fighting to return to for six hellacious months, and even three weeks of active duty hasn’t dulled the luster of saving lives.

Plumes of smoke tangle above flames streaking out of a fire in a modest brick bungalow. Hands shaking like a probie, Buck fumbles with the strap of his helmet and ambles out of the truck and tried not to hit Cap with a pleading puppy look. And yet he is salivating to go in.

It’s a simple house fire, probably electrical. Thankfully, the family isn’t home. Though they’ll return to a life-altering disaster. Fire sprouts from the windows, but he hasn’t yet breached the roof. There’s no need to go in yet. They tap in two near-by hydrants, break the rest of the windows to vent the fire and allow water access, and begin taming the beast. Once it’s more contained, Cap orders Buck and Eddie from the front with chemical extinguishers and a hose. Systematically, they smother stubborn flames and embers clinging to curtains or slithering across the ceiling like white-hot serpents, and they proceed further into the house.

Mask on, Buck surveys the sooty and soaked remains of what was once a lovely home, judging by the half-burned gold-flecked wallpaper of the dining room. He follows the burn patterns of the flames, reading the story of the fire in its trail and char. He cracks open a few walls to check for flames, taking care to remove any salvageable pictures or knick-knacks, and extinguishes any smoke spots with the chemical extinguisher. 

“We’re almost clear, checking the back room,” Buck keyed over the radio as Eddie manhandled the oven, disconnecting it from the gas line, the wall crumbled with it.

“Copy that,” Cap answers.

The fire had chewed through the ceiling, exposing the skeletal structure of the roof from the inside. 

Smoke still churns from the alcove in the far back of the house, and Buck follows the comment of destruction, knowing what he’d find at the end. Stubborn flames cling to the walls, ceiling, and what was left of the closed door. Even with his turnout on, the fire emits heat so tremendous there’s a vicious weight to it, shoving at Buck’s shoulders, compressing his ribcage. Smoke puffs forward to obscure Buck’s view, but the concentration of heat makes a decent target. “Eddie, light it up,” Buck said, stepping back. 

The power of the hose punches through the top half of the fire-eaten door, and a monstrous flame launches forth before succumbing to the water. Within minutes, it’s out. And when the smoke thins, Buck and Eddie immediately realize the origins. “Dryer fire,” they simultaneously transmit to the rest of the crew.

Eddie sets to drenching any hot spots while Buck knocks through what’s left of the door with the back of his ax. The door is now only ash, embers and a frame of intact wood, crumbles impressively. 

Pooled water rushes out like a tiny wave carrying a soccer ball, a jersey, and piles of clothes on its current. 

_ Buck smiles reassuringly at Christopher, even as his eyes drift to the bodies floating by, limbs mangled and bloated faces submerged in the water. They were dragged through the flood like some macabre parade, tangled in a sail, that had picked up more debris, like a soccer ball. Even though the tsunami happened only hours ago, they’ve been baking in the sun, and carry with them a ripe and fetid odor of death.  _

Buck’s entire body rejects the visceral flashback with such violence, he nearly passes out. 

Even though he has a plentiful supply of oxygen available through his facemask, Buck can’t breathe. The primal need for air sending him backpedaling wildly, and slips in the water, falling hard on his bottom. Nothing registers but a lung-freezing need to flee. He stumbles in the only direction that computes--away. He retreats like a pinball, careening into walls and shooting around corners.

When he hits sunlight, Buck fumbles frantically at the straps of his helmet, and claws at his own throat when he can’t unbuckle it. Revulsion jack-knifes through him, and unfastens his helmet and sweeps off his mask an instant before he vomits. The second shockwave of nausea downs him on all fours, fingers digging into the grass. 

He’s coming back into his body and senses and hears Chimney inquiring about contaminants and Cap ordering an immediate evacuation of the house. Buck waggles his head in an attempt to explain himself, but he doesn’t have the words nor the voice to speak them. His stomach is still turning itself inside up and dry-heaving strings of bile into the grass. 

Two pairs of arms latch on to his underarms, expertly dragging him away and towards the ambulance. He lets them. His body stays limp until he sees the gurney. He plants his feet in adamant refusal. He is a firefighter, not a  _ victim. _

Hen appears in front of him. “Buck, what’s going on?”

It takes a minute for him to regulate a body that seems to be rioting against everything. Finally, he regains the ability to inhale and exhale. “Sick…m’okay,” he manages. Buck nods at Chimney, who reluctantly lets him go. He braces against the truck for balance, leaning over the waist in a pathetic attempt to slow his breathing. 

Hen guides him to the back of the ambulance and presses an oxygen mask against his face. Buck is too disoriented to fight it. “Just take a minute, Buck. You’re okay,” Hen coos. “Breath slowly. There’s plenty of air.” 

She strips him of his turnout to listen to his breath sounds and take his vitals, writing the numbers on her glove. 

Embarrassment isn’t a feeling Buck has much familiarity with. He’s always lived loudly, taken big risks, and sometimes he’s fallen on his face, but it’s all a part of life. But openly having some kind of  _ melodramatic episode _ in his first month back on active duty leaves him feeling betrayed by his own body and on the wrong side of mortification. The second he is steadier, but hands the mask back to Hen, and reaches for his turn-out coat. 

“Stay put, Buck. I’m almost done.” 

“Henrietta,” Buck calls and tries to sound in control, “I need to get back to work. Please.” 

Hen stares at him, assessing. “Those baby blues don’t work on me,  _ Evan _ . But you trying to manipulate me is a good sign. Find me the second you’re done. I’m not playing with you, boy.” 

“Copy that.” 

Thanks to sheer adrenaline and Buck’s own orneriness, he helps the team clear the house. He’d long grown immune to the weight of his gear a few months out of the academy, but today, he feels every cumbersome ounce of those seventy-seven pounds. 

The ride back to the station is a bleak negative of their departure. The swaying of the truck upsets his stomach that still riddled with residual queasiness, and it takes every bit of his self-control not to puke in into his helmet. Once they arrive at the station, he drags himself out of the truck, and hangs up his gear, and vanishes into the locker room, hoping to duck Bobby’s disappointment. He can already hear Bobby’s lecture about how he wasn’t ready to come back, and how he’d been right the entire time. 

Buck all but collapses onto the bench, head in hands. He slams a fist against the nearest locker, giving life to his aggravation. He’s utterly tired of being ambushed by the disasters of the last year. When he’s done nothing but fight to recover, to heal, to do what he does best. “It’s not fair,” he whispers into his palms. 

During his particularly depressing times during his recoveries, when the pain was too much or the nightmares were too vivid, he allowed himself five minutes to wallow. He leans into how shitty he feels. And when those five minutes ended, he carefully reassembled himself with a splash of water and a session of deep breathing. Today, he does the same while hiding in one of the bathroom stalls. He doesn’t exactly cry, but it’s a near thing. When the timer on his iPhone vibrates, he washes up, changes his clothes, forces a smile before heading up to the loft. He sits at the table, dodging the barrage of popcorn that Chimney is leveling at a distracted Eddie, who is otherwise engaged in his phone. 

Bobby, of course, is in the kitchen preparing dinner. 

Eddie lifts his eyes to meet Buck’s and cocks his head to the side.  _ You good? _

Buck shrugs lightly, then nods. Satisfied, Eddie’s attention returns to his phone. Giving him space.

Hen slides into the seat next to him. “Are you okay?” 

“Peachy.” 

“I didn’t know peaches came in such a scary shade of white,” Hen says. “Come back to the bunks, let me check you out.” 

“I’m good.” 

“It's cute you think I'm asking,” Hen shoots back. She’s talking in low tones, and Buck realizes she’s trying to be discreet. 

Heart warmed a little, he gets up and walks back to the bunks. Hen closes the door, and locks it, ensuring privacy. Without the prying eyes of the squad, Buck lets his shoulders drop and flops onto the nearest bunk. Hen’s a damn good paramedic, empathetic and knowledgeable. She takes his vitals and shoots him a few glares during the process. “So what happened in there, huh?” she asks while taking his pulse.

Buck plays dumb. “Must’ve been something I ate.” 

“Your body’s telling me a different story. Your blood pressure is sky high, and you’re still shaking,” Hen explains. “Buck, you can tell me anything, you know that. Whatever you tell me stays between us.” 

“I...I know,” Buck stammers. “Thank you. I’m just...I’m wiped right now.” 

“All right,” Hen concedes. “I can’t fix that rockhead of yours, but I can make you feel a little better. Your electrolytes are probably shot and you’re dehydrated, so either you drink like a fish or and eat something…” 

“An IV will be faster,” Buck hedges.

“Option Buck, I like it,” Hen smiles. She’d come prepared, and within a minute, she has inserted the IV and rigged it to one of the bed’s posts. “There’s one more thing this paramedic has ordered.” 

“If you say a colonic…” Buck’s quip is interrupted by Hen wrapping her arms around him. He’s so surprised and touched that he falls silent. Hen, who is the most reserved in her affections, has pulled him to her chest. She rocks him a little like she does when Denny when he’s upset. He melts into the Mother Henning, and closes his eyes against the wetness there.

He smiles into the navy blue of her uniform and feels stupidly and unabashedly loved. Hen stops short of tucking him in and promises to check on him and the IV in a couple of hours. Worried about nightmares, Buck tries to rest without sleeping, but within a few minutes, lulled by the chattering din of his squad, he's out. 

When he wakes, he feels a bit stronger and more like himself. The IV has been disconnected and he’s been covered with a blanket. Buck’s wanders out into the loft and drops a gentle hand on Hen’s shoulder as he passes by. He manages to sip at the hearty soup and nibble at the crusty bread Bobby made for dinner, even though pasta was on the menu. No one mentions the incident at the house, not even Bobby. 

And when they receive another call, Buck gathers his determination and answers it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mini Disclaimer: all of my firefighting knowledge comes from TV shows, moderate Googling, and my own experiences. I hope you like this chapter. There is only one more to go. Thanks again for all of the comments, kudos and bookmarks. I'm on Tumblr if you want to chat.


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